


Trust Given

by aglarond



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Baby boy is traumatized and hasn't fully reckoned with it, Canon Character of Color, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fairly standard when you consider Zevran's upbringing but all the same, Female Character of Color, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Past Abuse, Tumblr Prompt, no editing no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglarond/pseuds/aglarond
Summary: Zevran is uncomfortable with healing magic because it reminds him of how the Crows used it to hide their numerous abuses of young recruits. When he is seriously injured during the ambush of the Kadan-Fe hideout, good sense and past trauma face off.Written for ZevWarden Week 2020 prompt Injury.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai & Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	Trust Given

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Zevran’s Crow training was no cakewalk, but how do you HC Zevran handles injuries? How does the warden take it when Zev gets badly hurt? Or vice versa? Do Zev or the warden ever get poisoned, seriously ill or have a major brush with death? What of magical injuries? Do they use magic to heal – if your warden is a mage, is this a comforting ritual for Zev?
> 
> To that last bit... Nah.
> 
> This spicy lil number is extra angsty and, honestly, a really unfortunate exchange for these two almost lovebirds. Not exactly the direction I anticipated as I started writing, but here we are. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Alistair, Mira, Oghren, Zevran and their faithful mabari, Callum, took the journey back to camp a little later than expected that evening, sporting new bumps and bruises for their efforts. The party’s recent ambush of the Kadan-Fe hideout per Master Ignacio’s “note” had left them a little worse for wear, but still victorious. 

_As if there was ever any doubt_ , Zevran mused, smirking through his labored breaths. _Maximum effort and minimal injuries, as it should be. Go us. Ha-_ ha!

But just then a flash of pain shot through him, doubling the assassin over and making him see stars. He stumbled slightly, falling a half a pace behind his party members before his vision cleared. 

_Ah. Perhaps ‘minimal’ is not the correct term_.

His hands went to the wound stretching from his right flank up his side, probing through the slash in his leather armor; the gash was warm to his touch—warmer, possibly, than it had been not an hour earlier when he’d gotten it—and newly leaking blood through his hastily constructed bandages. Zevran looked around; his party members had continued on ahead of him into the thicket that housed their campsite, apparently none the wiser that he had fallen behind.

_So much the better._

Taking advantage of his moment of solitude, Zevran unwound the near-soaked bandage from his abdomen, removing his tattered leathers in kind. With the bind loosened, fresh rivulets of bright blood seeped from his open wound, staining his undershirt crimson.

Zevran cursed, lifting his shirt to dab gingerly at the tender wound. This new gash was the sole blemish on his otherwise pristine bronze skin. Or, more precisely, the only one still visible. And though he would never admit it, this injury was almost beyond his capacity to treat, even with his extensive Crow training.

Zevran furrowed his brow as he further inspected the gash; He would need to apply several of the numerous salves and tinctures he kept in his tent, and quickly, if he was to avoid infection and fever by morning. Yet, even so, it might not be enough to stave off trouble.

A small twist of fear nestled in his belly at the thought.

_Come now, Zevran. Wynne would be more than willing to help. Just think—three minutes nestled in her bosom and you would be as good as new!_

But this wasn’t any better. Old wounds, both physical and emotional, came back to him as he recalled his many earlier experiences with magical healing. Healing magic doled out at the whims of his Crow masters was as good as gold could buy in any corner of Thedas, but even the strongest spell never quite erased the memories with the scars.

_Or Mira, if you’re of a mind. Sweet Mira and her delicate touch? Her small, warm hands questing over you, knitting you back together? Surely there can be no opposition…?_

A cold sweat broke out on Zevran’s brow that had nothing to do with the sting at his flank.

 _Or perhaps not_. Zevran’s mouth formed a thin, resolute line. _No, the salves and poultices will have to suffice. I-it is better this way,_ he thought, trying to persuade himself.

He carded a hand through his long blonde hair, sighing and not quite convinced. _After all, there is...honor to tending one’s own wounds. Gallantry, even. And, well—no need to trouble the others, yes? They...need not know the extent_.

As Zevran grappled with himself, his absence had been noticed among his companions. A clear voice rang out through the trees ahead. “Zevran?”

The assassin’s head shot up, golden eyes wide and dread etched into his face.

 _Braska! So much for discretion, Zevran._ He worked to erase the pain from his voice as he responded, “Yes, Warden?”

The voice continued, shouting through the trees. “Are you all right?” the voice paused. “Where’ve you gone?”

“Ah...well, I—uh…”

Zevran hastily wrapped the soaked binding around his abdomen, knotting the fabric sheets together tightly enough to make his head swim momentarily. As he slipped his tattered cuirass back over his shoulders, Mira Surana appeared through the trees ahead with her torch alight by her side.

Caught, Zevran labored to steady his breathing as he watched her approach. She appeared no worse for wear from their recent fight, sauntering over easily with no hint of a limp or other injury. She’d wasted no time trading her Chasind robes for more comfortable attire— _How long have I lingered_ , Zevran wondered wildly—leggings and a loose cotton shirt, in this case, and he lamented the loss of the stupendous view her battledress provided.

She stopped a little ways in front of him, lifting her light higher to see him better in the receding daylight.

Her magical light, as it turned out. Not a torchfire. 

Mira smiled softly at him, dampening the spell wisp in her left hand and tucking a rogue curl behind a pointed ear with her right. 

“Hey, you.”

“My dear Warden.”

Her eyes crinkled in an easy smile at his words. “Thought we’d lost you there, for a second. Where did you get off to?

 _Shit_. “Ah, well—a little over here, a little...over there…”

Mira squinted at him in the low light, apparently confused.

Zevran groaned. The lameness of his excuse embarrassed even him, but he was quickly losing capacity for playful banter.

“I...uh—dropped something. A trinket. No real value, do not worry—just sentimental. You understand.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Oh no! Well, maybe I can help? I have my wisp, I can—”

“Ah. N-no, I thank you. You are too kind. But no need...I have found the, erm...item,” he babbled, raising an arm to steer them both back in the direction of camp.

“Oh, have you?”

“Mmhmm,” he lied, increasingly desperate for a place to sit and rest. “Yes—you see my dear Warden, no need to worry. Now, let us return to camp. I am sure Morrigan is eager to poison us with her latest concoction in the name of nourishment.” 

Mira’s cheerful laughter brought him some modicum of relief as the pair walked off into the thicket. “You needn’t worry—well, tonight at least. Leliana’s done most of the cooking for tonight and it looks quite nice, really.”

Zevran’s stomach gave a hearty growl at the prospect. “What remarkable good fortune,” he said appreciatively, quite past the point of having anything clever to say in response. 

They neared the camp, walking in comfortable silence between them. If Mira noticed anything amiss, she said nothing, instead choosing to shoot him small furtive glances and smiles which Zevran returned, though mostly out of kindness as he anxiously awaited their arrival.

———

The bustle of camp greeted them as soon as they stepped into the clearing. Leliana was passing out bowls of whatever-was-for-dinner to their companions while Morrigan sat stoking the fire. Sten sat silently off to the side enjoying his evening ration with Callum moping by his feet. Oghren and Wynne were locked in a rather serious-looking discussion just outside of the campfire circle. And Alistair was slumped against one of the logs they used as benches around the campfire, struggling to extricate himself from his armor.

Zevran sighed deeply at the sight, the possibility of rest and relief coming closer with every step. Seeing Mira’s questioning gaze, he shot her a weak smile, but said nothing.

They both paused, each waiting for the other to speak.

“Well, I must—”

“Zev?”

He stopped short. “Yes, my dear Warden?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

Zevran watched her bite the inside of her lip, wondering at her uneasiness and unsure what she would share next. Mira started slowly, stumbling over her words, “I was wondering...if you’re not too tired, of course...well—Morrigan mentioned there was a sweet little lake nearby—they found it while we were out, you see—and I thought, well…”

_Ah. Damnit._

“What I mean is, would you like to go for a swim? With me, that is. Tonight. I-it’s a beautiful night out and I just thought…,” she trailed off, eyeing him keenly.

Guilt washed over him. Any other night he would have been overjoyed to accept such a request from anyone, let alone the vision before him.

The prospect of joining Mira for an evening dip in a cool lake was...endlessly enticing. Images flashed through Zevran’s head in the span of seconds: Mira’s tall, slender form slipping soundlessly into the cool lake waters; her long, tawny curls plastered to her shoulders and back as her dark skin glowed blue in the moonlight; the swell of her breasts just peeking through the water’s edge as she paddled towards him; and, well—any number of other appetizing possibilities.

His mouth went dry at the thought. Zevran cursed the fresh wound at his side anew, knowing its lengthy healing process would rob him of this opportunity for another fortnight at least.

He framed his refusal as delicately as possible, hoping to not derail weeks of progressive flirting. “Apologies, dear Warden, but I fear tonight I would not be at my best for such a tantalizing offer as you propose,” he purred, searching her face for the effects of his words.

“Oh. Right.” She looked down, obviously disappointed. “Well. Maybe...another night, then?”

He reached up, tucking that same rogue curl back behind her ear. “Any of them. You have only to ask.” He smiled softly at the Warden, ignoring the radiating pain from his side as the pair shared an increasingly rare moment of solitude.

She grinned shyly, leaning into his light touch. _Bravo, Zevran,_ he thought. _Even on the brink of death, you remain devilishly charming._

“That’s...very good to hear.” Grinning wider than before, Mira attempted to return to business. “Well, I uh...better go then. The others need healing still and I don’t think Alistair will ever get out of that armor without help, so…”

The ache in his side was even more severe, now coming in spasms up and down and around his middle. Trying to ignore its sting, he simply replied, “A Warden’s duty is never finished.”

She shot him a winning smile as she turned to go and the warmth in Zevran’s belly almost wiped away the pain in his side. “Don’t I know it.”

Zevran smirked and finally bid her farewell. As she walked away, he lightly closed a hand over the slice in his armor, grimacing on contact; yes, the heat coming off the wound had definitely increased. He frowned, new possibilities whirling through his mind. What had that damnable qunari put on his blade? Never had Zevran encountered a _warrior_ who used poisoned blades, but—well, these were not regular warriors, were they? Zevran suddenly felt very dizzy. He absolutely did _not_ have the antidote to any qunari toxins to in his tent. Which would mean he—he would have to—

“Oh, and Zev?

“Mm?”

Mira skipped the dozen or so paces back towards him and Zevran marveled again that she had escaped harm during their earlier battle. “I forgot to mention earlier—” she started. “Don’t even think of going to bed before you let me get a look at that wound,” Mira warned teasingly, gesturing at his right side. “I know you gave me the slip last battle, but you won’t be so lucky again.”

Zevran jerked his hand back from the wound reflexively, immediately cursing himself for drawing more attention to it. He paused before replying, surprised at her sudden boldness. “Aha...I wouldn’t dream of it, dear Warden.”

Mira squeezed Zevran’s forearm lightly, giving him another warm smile before heading to the other side of the campfire to attend to the others’ injuries. Zevran watched her go, working to still the bile rising in his throat at the thought of her magic wending through his body.

 _It will not come to that—it_ won’t _. I won’t allow it. Not this time_.

Shaken, Zevran began the short walk to the center of camp. As he walked, his mind wandered again to the deteriorating condition of his wound. As practiced as he was with poisons, he knew precious little of qunari toxins—the people to the north kept their secrets well. If these qunari warriors had applied an agent to their blades, Zevran’s chances of effective non-magical treatment were slim.

 _Perhaps two draughts instead of one this evening? And a third at sunrise? That should be sufficient, yes?_ he thought with increasing desperation. _Unless, of course, they used qamek…in which case, I would be lucky to still draw breath come sunrise._

Zevran’s heart hammered in his chest as he approached the campfire. _Get ahold of yourself, Zevran! You would know if you suffered the effects of qamek, personal experience or no. This is delirium of yours is a sign of infection setting in—nothing more._ He paused, breathing deeply as he tried to take heed of his own advice. _Now—retire for the evening and treat your wounds. We shall see what the morning brings._

But his companions had other ideas. “Zevran?” a melodious voice called as a hand closed on his shoulder. He flinched. _Braska, Zevran! How does this keep happening?! Are you a Crow or not?_ His eyes flew over to see Leliana peering quizzically at him.

“Are you well?”

“Ah, but of course my dear,” he replied, his Crow veneer slipping back into place. “I am the picture of health,” he replied, in a tone he hoped resembled gallantry. “My only wants at present are for a hearty meal and the comfort of a beautiful woman. And I understand you can aid me with at least one of these desires…?”

Leliana rolled her eyes, already quite familiar with Zevran’s ostentatious style of flirting. “We have stew, if you are hungry,” she said, gesturing at the pot simmering on the campfire. “It’s garbure--peasant stew. Or…it would be if I could keep Alistair from our cheese stores.” She wrinkled her nose. “And if we had any ham left. Though I suppose fennec does just as well in a pinch—"

He raised a hand to stop her. “Please. You are…a goddess, Leliana.”

She gave him a small smile then nodded towards one of the logs circling the fire. “Go ahead and rest. I’ll bring you some when you’re ready.”

Leliana broke away to continue her rounds. Zevran watched her retreat and then turned back the way he came. _Very kind of you, sweet Leliana. But I have more immediate needs, I think_.

His wound was now blazing with heat. Poison or no, the consequences of allowing infection to set in overnight ranged from impractical to potentially catastrophic if they could threaten his party’s ultimate goal of ending the Blight. He needed a plan. Zevran considered his options: ideally, he could make a beeline for his tent, apply a salve or two, and then return for a late dinner with none of his companions the wiser. But…if he was honest with himself, he was unlikely to rise again for a meal after reaching his tent. His strength was quickly waning.

 _That would be the blood loss, no doubt_.

He considered forgoing dinner entirely, heading straight for the tent and the relief offered there, but a growl from his stomach quickly put an end to that idea. It seemed there was only one way forward.

 _Hmph. A good meal will only aid in the healing process_ , he relented.

Zevran sat down heavily on one of the logs circling the campfire, wincing with the effort. Pain blurred his vision. The heat at his flank grew ever more persistent as the adrenaline from their fight ebbed further and further away.

Hands gripping at the log’s bark, Zevran willed his eyesight to focus. Through the blur he could just make out Sten’s large form on the log opposite him. Squinting harder, his eyes fell upon Callum lying listlessly at the qunari’s feet and Mira stooped over to examine him. It seemed the mabari’s his whines were even more pitiable than Alistair’s, earning him first place in line for treatment. 

Zevran shifted awkwardly, trying to get comfortable on the makeshift bench. Pain shot up his side and he hissed audibly. _No need to delay this further_ , he thought. Exhausted, Zevran waved his left arm half-heartedly to flag Leliana down. She caught his meaning, nodding as she handed out her last bowl and turned back to the pot to retrieve another for Zevran.

Waiting for her return, Zevran turned back to Mira. The healer was doubled over, hands resting on her thighs as she stared intently at Callum. She patted one thigh encouragingly, trying to entice the mabari to sit up. Slowly, much more slowly than usual, he rose to a seated position, holding his injured paw aloft. Mira rewarded him with a quick scratch behind the ear and Callum’s tail wagged weakly in response.

Mira crouched down in front of the mabari, shaking her hands loose in preparation. Raising her hands, she cupped the air on either side of the mabari’s broad head, moving her mouth in an incantation Zevran couldn’t hear from this distance. As she concentrated, a cool blue mist slowly wafted from Mira’s fingertips into Callum, dipping and shifting up and around his ears, down his back and finally roping around the mabari’s leg to ease his whingeing sprain.

Zevran looked on transfixed. He was so engrossed in the scene before him, he hardly noticed Leliana’s approach, starting slightly as she handed him his dinner.

 _And the count is now zero for three. How embarrassing, Zevran._ _Another reason to draw this evening to a close—and quickly._

He gratefully accepted the spoon and bowl of stew she offered, complimenting her resourcefulness in making anything even remotely edible out of the meager ingredients this backwater country provided. Leliana brushed off his praise, but the slight blush in her cheek showed that his comments landed regardless.

Feeling a little more like himself again, Zevran returned his sights to Mira and Callum. As the last tendril of magic disappeared into the sprain, the mabari jumped up, trying out his newly healed leg. Finding it secure, the dog bounded onto his master, breaking her reverie and slobbering her with grateful kisses. Mira giggled, struggling to keep her balance as the massive dog licked and nipped at her face in gratitude.

A thin smile settled on Zevran’s face and he turned back to his quickly cooling stew.

Hunger roared in his belly as he spooned skeptically at the hearty soup. An Orlesian peasant stew, Leliana had called it. Zevran winced; if peasants could manage to eat this heartily in Orlais, he shuddered to think what the nobility leadened their plates with. He craved the seared fish plates and fresh, round flavors of his home country even more as he stared into the watery soup before him.

“A falta de pan, buenas son las tortas,” he grumbled, dipping his spoon into the stew.

But as he brought the spoon up to his mouth, an increasingly familiar scorch of pain ripped through his right side, causing him to drop the spoon entirely. 

“Concha de Creador!” Zevran cursed under his breath, shutting his eyes tightly and willing himself not to black out. He didn’t bother checking his dressings, knowing he would find fresh, dark blood seeping from his wound once again. After a few moments spent steadying his breathing, Zevran quickly scanned the camp to see if anyone had noticed his display.

It appeared not. Mira was still petting an appreciative Callum. Alistair was prone on the ground, having apparently given up on removing his armor entirely. Oghren and Wynne were still locked in conversation while the others were sharing idle chatter over dinner.

Shifting the bowl to his other hand, Zevran retrieved the spoon from the ground, wiping it absently against his thigh with a frown. Balancing the bowl in his right hand instead, Zevran began to unsteadily spoon stew into his mouth with his left. As he got the hang of it, his attention flitted back to Mira.

She had moved on to tending Alistair’s wounds. Though she hadn’t managed to get past helping him remove his armor; the beating Alistair had taken earlier from the qunari mercenaries left it dented and warped into itself, making it much more difficult to remove. Mira attempted to wend her magic through the metal, but the runes rebuffed her efforts. She swore loudly and Zevran settled in to watch as he silently ate his stew. 

“Ooh-oh, oh! Careful with that, _careful_!” Alistair yelped as Mira yanked at one of his greaves. “I’d like to keep that hand after you’re done with it!”

“Yes, Alistair,” Mira drawled. “I can only imagine how fond you are of that hand.”

“Hey!”

Zevran snorted into his bowl as the pair continued bickering like siblings.

“Shut it, Alistair.”

“It _hurts_!”

“If you stood still, it wouldn’t hurt half so much.”

“You sound just like Wynne,” Alistair groused.

Zevran smirked soundlessly as he watched their little drama unfold. He glanced down; he was coming to the bottom of his soup bowl. Hopefully, Alistair’s petulance would keep Mira occupied for another couple of minutes, leaving him enough time to finish his dinner and slip away before her attentions rounded on him. It looked as if she was the only mage he would have to rebuff tonight.

Zevran’s eyes darted over to Wynne. The elder mage in their party was, surprisingly, still occupied in her care for Oghren. It appeared she had treated his wounds in minutes— _You see, Zevran? There is nothing to fear from these people. Stop dwelling in the past!_ —thanks to the dwarf’s heavy legionnaire armor which kept him well insulated from frontal assault, and even from seven-foot-tall qunari. Instead, by the sound of it, the pair was now engrossed in a long-winded diagnosis of Oghren’s rather pervasive skin affliction and its many, many unappetizing symptoms.

Forgetting himself, Zevran shook his head violently to prevent that mental image from taking root. He instantly regretted the action; His vision swam again and the resulting pain in his side meant his stomach threatened to purge what little stew he had managed to consume.

Zevran groaned; There was simply no more time to delay. Holding back an involuntary heave, Zevran did his best to shut out the rest of that conversation, tucking in to his dinner with renewed urgency.

———

Feeling somewhat rejuvenated by the meal and a short rest, Zevran began planning his escape. His eyes darted to Mira. She was still working to free Alistair from his armor, applying a balm and light healing mist through the breaks in his armor by his neck to help reduce the swelling welding it to his upper body. Zevran chewed at the inside of his lip; Now was as good a time as any.

Stashing his bowl on the ground, Zevran took one more glance around. Mira and Alistair were now bickering about the balm’s unfortunate scent, but neither seemed to have noticed Zevran’s movement. Pushing his advantage, he swung his legs over the log and stood in one fluid movement, ignoring the blistering pain from his injury. Putting his stealth training to work, the assassin managed to put several paces of distance between himself and his companions without notice.

Zevran thanked his earlier self for pitching a tent so close to the campfire; he would be safely out of sight behind the canvas flaps in mere moments. Just as Zevran allowed himself to imagine the sweet, if slightly scratchy, reprieve of his bedroll, he heard Mira call out to him.

Tension wriggled up his spine, causing his wound to spasm. 

“Zev—wait up!” she called again.

Searching his brain for a clever excuse for his exit and coming up short, Zevran turned to face Mira.

She stopped in front of him, a small bemused smile playing on her face. “Hey. I thought you were going to wait for me?” Mira gestured to his side. “I still need to get a look at that cut. We wouldn’t want an infection setting in overnight.”

“Oh, do not worry about me, dear Warden,” he deflected. “With Leliana’s fine dinner to sustain me and a restful evening in my tent, I will be quite well by morning. Besides—” he added nodding back at Alistair, “I could not in good conscience steal you from your other patient.”

“Oh,” she scoffed, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine—” she wrinkled her nose, “He’s just a big baby, really.”

Zevran said nothing, his lips forming a thin line.

Mira looked at him expectantly. “So...would you like to sit so I can take a look?”

“No. I thank you.”

“What? Why not?”

“As I said, I have it all well in hand. And many poultices to aid in a speedy recovery back in my tent,” he continued, feigning good humor. “The Crows are very thorough in their education, you know; all recruits learn the practical application of healing methods as an essential skill.” He chuckled dryly. “Never more essential than when you are caught without them, I imagine. Sealing a wound in battle with nothing but a blade and fire is…a nasty business,” he added, chuckling lightly to help put Mira at ease. She looked politely doubtful, a small line forming between her eyebrows as she squinted up at him. Uneasiness played in the back of Zevran’s brain; something told him this conversation might be harder to wriggle from than previous exchanges. “But do not concern yourself, my dear Warden. An hour in my tent with my salves and mending kit and I will be as good as new, I promise you.” He turned to leave, hoping she would not press further.

But Mira was not content to let the subject drop. She stepped forward to close the gap between them, her hand closing on Zevran’s forearm. “Zevran, don’t be ridiculous,” she started, her dark eyes examining him. “That qunari mercenary caught half your flank in that last swipe—no, don’t deny it, I saw it.”

Swallowing his protests, Zevran looked at the ground, shame rising in his cheeks. He was a failed assassin indeed if he could not keep his intentions hidden from even a sheltered Circle mage. 

Mira continued, “Now, you’ve been passing it off well enough to have the others fooled, but not me. I know pain when I see it.” She slid her hand down Zevran’s forearm to grasp his hand in hers. “You have to have that wound treated. And preferably, much sooner rather than later.” Her voice softened, “So, please. Let me help you.”

Zevran studied the patch of grass at his feet a moment longer. _This is a bad business, Zevran_ , he told himself before raising his eyes to give Mira a long searching look. The earnestness he found there brought him shame; this woman—this Warden, a protector at heart—had held his life in her hands and, with an enduring compassion he did not deserve, had given it back to him combined with new purpose.

And again, when he offered himself in her service she deflected, embracing him as a comrade instead. Where he expected to settle a blood debt—services done for a service rendered—he found compassion, friendship and even, well…who knows. And yet how had he repaid her? With half-truths and omissions, at least where it mattered.

He combed his fingers through long blonde hair, nails dragging at his scalp. You _have already laid your life at her feet. Is it so much more to give her your trust as well?_

Mira began shifting uncomfortably and Zevran knew he had been silent too long.

“I do not doubt it,” he offered. Zevran didn’t need the particulars to know what sort of pains Mira witnessed in the Circle Tower. Even so, that didn’t change his truth. Or his decision.

Zevran stood straighter, trying to make it less obvious that he was favoring his uninjured side. “I thank you, but no. I have all the help I need back in my tent.”

Mira stared back, the frustration clear in her face. “Zevran, that could take hours. And it might not even work entirely. I could tend your wound in _minutes_.” She shrugged helplessly.

“...Yes. Yes, I suppose you could,” he started, unsure of what his next words would be. How many more times could he bear to refuse her before the whole truth had to come out? “In fact, I do not doubt it. But I… Well.” He looked away from her to the tree line, to the camp fire and back towards the ground, desperate to avoid her pleading brown eyes.

 _There is no more to say except the whole of it. But...best to keep things clean_. “Another time, my dear Warden,” he added softly.

Limp on his feet with the physical and emotional toll of the evening, Zevran turned to close the remaining distance to his tent.

Just as his back was turned, Mira found her voice again. “...Zevran?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, turning slightly. She stood just where he had left her, drawn a little ways away from the campfire, her face and furrowed brow in shadow. She shifted her weight uneasily before speaking again. 

“Does—Does my magic bother you?”

Zevran sighed deeply, visibly deflating. He did not wish to have this conversation—at all, if he could help it, and certainly not right _now_.

Still facing away, he replied, “Mm, I would not say that.”

Mira’s hands rose to sit on her hips. “I’m going to need a bit more than that, Zev,” she said curtly.

Zevran raised a hand to massage at his temples; This conversation was quickly spiraling out of his control. He pivoted to face her fully. “Magic is a tool, yes? Such as Alistair’s longsword or my own daggers?”

“Yes, I agree entirely,” Mira added earnestly.

“Mm. And so magic can be wielded as the caster desires. Though, I confess, I have never felt the urge to mend a wound with my daggers—again, battlefield cauterizations are…rather unpleasant,” he trailed off, puzzling over where to go next.

“…Right.”

Zevran cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I—” she started, the line between her eyebrows reappearing. “And so...will you allow me to tend to your wounds?”

“Ahh. Well, no, I would prefer you did not.”

Mira shot him an exasperated look, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Zevran...”

He frowned slightly, wondering how much to share with the woman before him. His eyes flicked back to the center of camp: the others were occupied, some preparing for bed or lingering to chat, though he saw more than one furtive glance in his and Mira’s direction. This conversation had already gone on far too long. Yes, Mira had spared his life upon meeting and she had saved it many more times in battle with a well-timed jinx. But—was her confidence worth forsaking the Crows, transgressions notwithstanding? More than that—was he ready to hold Mira in confidence as she held him?

Setting his mouth in a small stern line, Zevran settled on a blunted version of the truth.

“You asked if I am uncomfortable with magic or with healing by magical means. Neither is exactly true. In fact, I have been healed by magical means many times.” _More times than I care to remember_ , he thought bitterly. “The Crows retain numerous recruits of magical ability for just such a purpose. Mostly young children just beginning to exhibit their talents whose non-magical parents simply wish to be free of the hassle. Quite a boon for the Crows, all told. Such skills are uniquely useful to an organization of assassins, as you can imagine.”

Mira nodded slowly as she listened.

“Magical healing presents many tactical advantages, as you well understand. In a botched assassination attempt, for example,” he added, hoping to entice a small smile from the healer and redirect the conversation. She gave him nothing. 

He soldiered on. “Though the Crows are not what you might call…judicious in their application of healing magic. While an organization of assassins has an outsized need for healing by nature, with that kind of power at-the-ready, a House can become…let us say, less discerning in other areas, knowing that magical healing may absolve them, yes?”

Zevran paused, closing his mind to the resurfaced memories threatening to break his resolve. Keeping his eyes trained downward, he added gravely, “Suffice it to say, my dear Warden, magic can hide a great many ills.”

A chill passed in the air between them. Mira seemed stunned into silence though a scowl began to play at the corners of her mouth. Zevran allowed his attentions to slip back to the insistent spasms radiating from his right side, letting the pain draw him from the memories this conversation had resuscitated.

Mira crossed one arm around her middle as she compulsively looped one long auburn strand around and around her index finger. After several moments she spoke, breaking their silence with a half-whispered, “Is that how you think of me?

Zevran jerked back to the present, eyes widening. He blinked several times, not understanding how she could have arrived at that conclusion and missed the point of his admission so entirely. “T-This is nothing to do with you,” he replied, more harshly than he had intended.

It was Mira’s turn to bristle. She balked at Zevran’s tone, a new rigidity appearing in her shoulders. When she spoke again, her voice was ice. “And how am I supposed to believe that? You won’t allow me to heal you, your reason being the Crows’ own misuse of magic. You’re accusing me of being like them—you think we’re all the same, us mages.”

Zevran blinked, entirely caught off-guard by the abrupt turn in conversation. He glanced back at the center of camp; their companions were no longer bothering to hide their interest. Pushing himself to focus, Zevran turned back to his immediate problem. “You willfully misunderstand me.”

“I don’t think I do, Zevran. And, honestly, I’m surprised at you,” she ventured, raising her voice. By your own admission, magic for healing purposes is useful, and much preferred to the alternatives. And yet you won’t consent to be treated by me, won’t bother to trust me enough to take your wellbeing into consideration. To treat you better than the House that abused you! How can I think anything other than that you disdain mages—disdain me—for what we are?” Mira took a gasping breath before continuing, “I spared your _life_ , Zevran—does that mean nothing to you?”

She really did not know him at all. “Trust grows, Warden.”

Taken aback, Mira looked near tears. “Trust given should be reciprocated, Zevran. Or so it is between friends.”

Zevran had to bite his tongue—there was nothing more he could say this night that would patch the wound at his side or fill the widening hollow in his chest. “I believe I have made my perspective clear, however you decide to interpret my words,” he said, willing himself to be impassive. “There is nothing more to say on the subject. Goodnight, Warden.” With the last word barely out of his mouth, Zevran turned to walk to his tent, needing to put as much space as possible between himself and the woman he had been so calamitously, desperately wrong about.

Mira, not content to let him go so easily, shouted after him. “Fine! Go then. I hope you enjoy your tent time. Apply your _salves_ ,” she taunted. “And take heart knowing that, come morning, once your infection’s good and set in, I’ll be the one who saves your ass.” She paused, lowering her voice to murmur, “Magic and all.”

Zevran stiffened, pausing just outside his tent. He glanced over his shoulder but would not meet Mira’s eyes. “I sincerely hope it does not come to that. Commander.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, am I right?
> 
> Also, sorry for the mess. I didn't have anyone beta this fic (or others, come to think of it) and this one really needed it.
> 
> Comment or kudos if you enjoyed and find me on tumblr @aglarondwrites. Thanks!


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